MAYA

LINNELL
Wallaby Lane

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 First published in 2024

Copyright © Maya Linnell 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

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Australia
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 1

The radio station’s production switchboard had been lit up

like a Christmas tree all morning and Lauren Bickford was
desperate for a double-shot latte and fresh air to blast away
the 4.30am-alarm fatigue.
She bustled out of the studio and nearly bumped into a
colleague in the hall. ‘Woah, George, you right with that?’
The long-serving breakfast presenter, George Whitehead,
peered over an armful of perilously stacked items: newspapers,
coffee cups and his laptop. ‘Absolutely,’ he insisted, his emphatic
nod making the mugs clink together. ‘Only a fool would stand
in the way of a producer and her caffeine fix.’
Lauren laughed, swooping in before the towering pile
crashed to the ground. ‘I’m going to miss your sweet-talking,
George. Caravan all packed and ready?’
‘Ready as we’ll ever be. My wife’s even vacuumed the
curtains,’ he said, attempting to open the staffroom door
with his elbow. ‘And how about you, Blondie?’ He lowered
his voice. ‘Is your suit dry cleaned and ready to go?’
‘I’ve never seen you wear a suit to work, George,’ Lauren
said, grinning and opening the door for him, ‘nor any of the

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other presenters. But if it’s good news tomorrow, perhaps I’ll

dust off the iron.’
‘Dress for the job you want,’ George replied. ‘Those wrinkly
shirts might be okay for the producer’s box, but you’ll want
to look the part when you accept this new gig. As I told the
HR team, you’re the right lady to host the brekky show.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ Lauren said, donning a jacket and dashing
outside into the crisp autumn air. Gold and ochre leaves
crunched under her boots and puddles reflected the over-
cast sky, a timely reminder to pack her fingerless gloves for
tomorrow’s outside broadcast.
The barista, Jean Dellacourte, waved from the mobile coffee
van. ‘Lauren, you’re late! I almost left.’
‘Sorry, the listeners kept calling in. They’re missing George
already.’ Lauren handed over her reusable cups, a twinge of
anxiety running down her spine: excitement that she might
finally step into the radio host’s seat or nerves that she’d put
herself out there with no guarantee of success? Probably both.
‘It wasn’t just George, everyone loved today’s topics too.
You’ve got a nose for good stories,’ Jean said, lowering the
radio volume and raising her voice over the grinding coffee
beans. ‘Everyone’s got an opinion on the cost of firewood,
especially when the temperature drops and folks are scram-
bling for a trailer-load of red gum.’
Lauren’s topic suggestion had attracted calls from across
the district, listeners sharing fond memories of family wood-
chopping days and stories of snakes in wood piles and close
chainsaw incidents. ‘I’ll be dreaming of a wood fire and lap
rug tomorrow when we’re broadcasting from Lacewing Estate.
Fancy making a morning coffee run?’
‘For a hardworking girl like you, I’ll make an exception,’
Jean said, promising she’d set up her coffee van bright and early.

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 Wallaby Lane 3

The morning flew past and despite another coffee and

the last of her Easter egg stash, Lauren was dead on her feet
by 1pm. Yawning, she returned to her desk for another few
hours, checked her running sheet one last time then lugged
the recording equipment to the work car.
Heavy footsteps thumped behind her.
‘Great show today,’ said the station editor, Paul Wanganeen.
‘Now go home and get some rest, all this overtime is going
to kill my budget. Boss’s orders, especially seeing George left
hours ago.’
George is retiring, not hoping for a promotion.
‘A couple more things to tick off the list, then I’ll sleep
easier,’ Lauren said, resisting the temptation to ask her boss
about the job announcement.
Less than twenty-four hours and you’ll know one way or
another, she told herself.
Satisfied they were packed for tomorrow’s show, Lauren
drove out of the radio station, leaving Mount Gambier for the
vineyards, quaint shopfronts and houses of Penwarra. Instead
of turning into Petticoat Lane and crawling into bed, Lauren
continued through town to Lacewing Estate, where volunteers
ran back and forth from the winery car park to the barrel
room, arms laden with baking.
‘Perfect timing,’ called a familiar voice. Lauren’s best friend,
April Lacey, appeared with shopping bags over each arm,
a smile on her face and the most sumptuous platter of sweets.
‘It’s busier than Rundle Mall in here,’ Lauren marvelled,
tucking her fair hair behind her ears and admiring the mini
lemon tarts, homemade lamingtons and chunky chocolate
chip biscuits on April’s platter. ‘It looks like you’re hosting a
wedding, not an art festival opening.’
April laughed, passing Lauren the platter. ‘Our committee
takes their art almost as seriously as their wine. I won’t knock

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 4 maya linnell

back the help, but it’s almost eight o’clock. Shouldn’t you be
sleeping?’
‘Dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s. I want tomorrow’s live
broadcast to go off without a hitch for George’s last day.’
‘Speaking of big days, when do they announce your job?’
‘It’s not my job.’ Lauren looked at her watch, ‘But we’ll
know in seventeen hours and fifty-two minutes. Whoever gets
the gig has big shoes to fill.’
‘What do you mean “whoever”?’ April swatted Lauren’s
arm. ‘You’re a shoo-in. You know the region inside and out,
and you’ve paid your dues in the producer’s chair.’
Lauren wasn’t so sure. ‘If the outside broadcast runs
smoothly, I’ll feel better about my chances,’ she said, waving
as Geraldine Corcoran—resident cooking instructor, chef and
the star of tomorrow’s radio show—tore into the parking lot.
‘I’ve been thinking about tomorrow, Lauren,’ Geraldine
said after she joined them. She cast a fraught look at Lauren.
‘I can’t do it. You don’t want me tripping over my tongue.
April’s a far better choice!’
Lauren heard the older lady’s voice falter. Geraldine barely
batted an eyelid when faced with a classroom of incompetent
cooks, she swam in the ocean without a wetsuit year round
and regularly plated up for a hundred or more diners at the
Penwarra Golf Course, but tonight she looked like she’d rather
face a firing squad than a microphone.
‘Nerves are okay, Geraldine.’ Lauren offered a reassuring
look. ‘But that’s why I’m here, we’ll run through the questions
and you’ll be good to go tomorrow.’
And even though it was already an hour past her bedtime,
and the alarm would hit like a tonne of bricks at 4 am,
Lauren talked Geraldine through the interview, role playing
the questions several times until Geraldine was comfortable.

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 Wallaby Lane 5

She fell asleep with her fingers still crossed the moment she
crawled into bed.

~
Jack Crossley pulled a seatbelt over his shoulder, gripped the
steering wheel with two hands and looked in the rear-view
mirror.
‘Got your lunch box?’
His niece, Harriet, nodded, her glossy braids swinging.
‘Drink bottle and hat?’
She pulled her thumb from her mouth, gave another nod,
then fixed Jack with a look. ‘I’ll be fine, Uncle Jack. Do we
have your lunch box, hat and drink bottle?’
Jack returned his eyes to the road, amused by the sass in
his niece’s reply. ‘Roger that,’ he said, as the rusty property
sign for Sunny Cross Farm faded from view. The sign had been
rustic when he’d first arrived in Penwarra as a teenager. Two
and a half decades later, it was positively ancient.
‘Now, you remember what your mum says?’ Jack said as
they pulled up at the school gate a little while later.
‘Use my manners, smile when I say hello and wash my
hands. But why do I have to smile when I don’t want to, Uncle
Jack? You don’t always.’
‘Ouch.’ Jack cast a mock-wounded look over his shoulder.
‘That’s a bit rough, kiddo.’
‘But it’s true!’
‘We’ll swap notes over dinner tonight to see how we both
scored on that front.’
Harriet crossed her arms and peered out the car window,
the spitting image of her mother, Clem—all bluff and bluster,
especially when she was nervous.

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‘What if no one else goes for Port Power, Uncle Jack?’ She
tugged at the neckline of the football guernsey they’d bought
for the first themed dress-up day of the year.
Jack scanned the car park. ‘I can see a bunch of Adelaide
Crows supporters, a handful of interstate teams and some that
forgot about footy day altogether, but there’s a good spread
of Port Adelaide fans too. You’ll be right, Harri.’
She turned to Jack, her tiny hand on the car door handle.
‘Do you think Mum will be okay?’
Jack unbuckled his seatbelt. Had she picked up on Clem’s
mood too? ‘It’s just a cold, she’ll be fine,’ he said, placing a
bucket hat on Harriet’s head, hoping his optimism sounded
genuine to her little ears. It wasn’t the coughing or sneezing
he was worried about. ‘Now let’s get you signed in.’
The car park was swarming with students in their team
colours, so Jack moved fast. He snapped the pre-requisite
photo outside the classroom, sent it to the family group chat
and wrapped his niece in a hug.
‘Don’t forget to be awesome,’ he said.
‘You too, Uncle Jack.’
Cars wheeled out of the school car park, but Jack pulled
away slowly, using the short drive to the Penwarra Police
Station to work out exactly when his sister Clem’s morning
had taken a nosedive. The farmhouse had been silent when
he’d left for the pool at 5 am, and she’d seemed fine, albeit
sleepy and a little sniffly when he returned from his swim to
find her with Harriet eating breakfast.
The football-day fuss, that’s what did it.
Clem had still been in her pyjamas at 8.45 am, the oven
humming with muffins that hadn’t been ready in time. Like
with a lot of things, Clem’s heart had been in the right place,
but her determination to give Harriet the best footy-themed
day hadn’t gone to plan. It wasn’t the football-shaped pancakes

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 Wallaby Lane 7

or the fishtail braids with black, white and teal ribbons that
sabotaged the morning, nope, it was Clem’s vision for a lunch
box with all the bells and whistles, even though she was under
the weather. A basic melt-and-mix muffin recipe might have
worked, but after she’d coloured the cake batter, mixed up
teal and white buttercream icing and shaped fondant into Port
Power lightning strikes, it had been too late.
Jack’s phone flickered on the dashboard as the brown brick
police station came into view. He parked underneath a towering
gum tree and checked his messages.
His grandfather, Arthur, had sent through a text with a
string of emojis.

Snazzy Port Power colours, Harriet! Hope your footy day is

tops. When are we scheduling in another game of Scrabble,
Jacko? I’ve got a ripper ready for the next triple-word score
🏉🚔⚡

Jack replied, then pocketed the phone. Returning to Penwarra

hadn’t been easy, especially seeing as it was his first country
posting, but it wasn’t about him.
Clem will be fine, Jack told himself. He locked the ute and
started for the station, wondering how long his promise to
Harriet would last. Hand washing was a cinch and manners
were pretty much automatic, but when it came to unnecessary
smiling, he had a feeling his niece’s scorecard would be better
than his on that one.

~
Lauren pulled into the Rural AM radio station car park the
following day, savouring the last post-program debrief with
her friend and mentor George.
‘You’ve done it, Blondie,’ George told her, unbuckling his
seatbelt. ‘One of the best outside broadcasts I’ve heard, and

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a full complement of magnificent guests to boot. Wasn’t sure

you’d be able to coax Geraldine back to the mike after her
first fluff-up, but you did well,’ he said, adjusting his flat cap.
A bunch of helium balloons was tied to the station front
door and the words ‘Congratulations’ beamed at them from
the biggest silver balloon.
George grinned, nudging Lauren with his elbow and opening
the passenger door. ‘You got the job!’
Lauren shrieked with joy, almost tripping over her feet in
her hurry to get out of the car and confirm her selection as
the new breakfast show host.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ George, who was one step ahead, batted the
big balloon away and opened the door. ‘Bravo, Blondie, bravo!’
Colourful streamers crisscrossed the station staff room and
every ounce of ill will towards the pernickety senior producer,
Patrice O’Neill, evaporated when she rushed out of the staff
kitchenette with a bunch of flowers in her arms.
‘You’re late,’ Patrice said, frowning over her shoulder at
Lauren. ‘The sausage rolls will be dry as chips, they’ve been
in the oven so long. Hold these, would you?’
Lauren froze as Patrice shoved the flowers into her hands,
adjusted the ribbon, then reclaimed the bouquet.
‘Congratulations on a brilliant final show,’ Patrice said,
passing the posy to George.
‘Oh—’ Lauren felt her cheeks flush scarlet, realising at the
same time as George that the festivities were for him, not her.
She whirled around, glimpsing the awkwardness on George’s
face, and marched down the corridor, so intent on reaching
the bathroom she nearly collided with the station editor, Paul.
‘Ah, Lauren. You got a minute?’
The tiny hope Lauren had been holding onto fizzled out
as Paul walked with her to his office, sat on the edge of his
desk and steepled his fingers.

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 Wallaby Lane 9

‘Look, it’s never easy—’

Lauren slumped into a chair. ‘They passed me over again?’
Paul’s grim nod was confirmation enough.
A knock at the door and Patrice’s voice carried through the
thin wall. ‘Any time you’re ready, then. We’ve got speeches to
get through.’
‘Thanks, Patsy, we’ll be there in five.’
Patrice’s indignant ‘hmppfft’ was like petrol on a bonfire
for Lauren.
‘This is bulldust,’ Lauren said, shooting out of the seat.
‘I interviewed perfectly. The HR lady loved me, you encouraged
me to go for it and George gave me a glowing reference.’
‘I’m sorry, Lauren. My hands were tied.’ Paul shifted on
the desk, sending papers fluttering to the floor.
‘Did they listen to the material I uploaded?’ Lauren blew
out a breath, pushing her hair away from her flaming cheeks.
‘Nobody knows the district like me, Patrice doesn’t want the
job and the fill-in guy is worse than a sensor light, only works
when someone walks past.’
Paul shook his head. ‘I can see you’re upset.’
‘Really? What did they say, though? They can’t fob me off
without feedback. Maybe I can change their minds,’ she said,
a pleading note in her voice. ‘Do they want more references?’
‘You’ve made great progress with your delivery and with
sourcing news,’ Paul said, ‘but management didn’t think you
were ready yet.’
‘Ready? I’ve done the graveyard shift for four years, darn it.’
‘I like your spunk, Lauren, and you’re right; you know the
lay of the land better than any outsider. But you’re working
for the national broadcaster, not a dinky independent station
or community radio. Freezing on air is only okay when you’re
a junior. They want to see more public speaking experience,
more time in the presenter’s chair without any hiccups.’

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 10 maya linnell

‘But how can I get better at managing my on-air nerves

without more on-air opportunities?’
Another knock came at the door, then Patrice tapped on
the office window, pointing to her watch. ‘Chop chop! The
party pies are going cold.’
Her footsteps disappeared down the corridor at a brisk pace.
‘I think we’re done here,’ Paul said gently, opening his
office door. ‘Come have a sausage roll. I’ve got bubbly in the
fridge and we really do need to toast George’s farewell before
his missus hooks up the caravan and heads off without him.
You’re a fine producer, Lauren, and one day we’ll make a
presenter out of you.’
Lauren slowly re-rolled the cuffs of her blazer so the striped
satin lining was on display and pictured her mum’s response.
Hold your head high, especially in the face of defeat.
Gabrielle Bickford would be bitterly disappointed about the
job, but she’d be equally horrified if one of her girls dissolved
into tears at work. Chin up, keep powering on.
Lauren swiped at her smarting eyes, straightened her spine
and headed for the staff room, searching for positives within
the disappointment.

~
Clem Crossley’s battered jeep was in the driveway when Jack
pulled into Sunny Cross Farm that afternoon. He parked,
grabbed a cloth from the shed and dampened it before polishing
the bugs from the front bumper of his 4 x 4. The cloth didn’t
clean off every splatter, but his evening habit kept the vehicle
looking smart between weekend washes. He moved to Clem’s
car, scrubbing at the headlights and the grille, but the bugs
didn’t budge.
‘Uncle Jack!’ Harriet stood by the laundry door, her dark
hair swirling around her face and flour smeared across her

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 Wallaby Lane 11

cheeks. ‘We’re making a passionfruit log and Mum’s rolling

it up in a tea towel!’
Jack stepped out of his boots and followed her into the kitchen.
‘Don’t even look at the mess,’ Clem warned, glancing up
from the rectangular sheet of sponge cake as he assessed
the sprawl of bowls, trays, wire racks, measuring tools and
ingredients. ‘We’re in the middle of our pièce de résistance.’
‘Chocolate sponge with passionfruit?’
Harriet beamed. ‘That was my idea. So it looks like a real log!’
He wasn’t sure how the combination would taste, but if their
smiling faces were the benchmark for a successful afternoon’s
baking, it was already a winner in his books.
‘Hope you don’t have plans for dinner,’ Clem said, carrying
the tea towel roll to the dining table. ‘But no stress if you do,’
she hurried to add. ‘We can save you some.’
‘No plans apart from a quick bike ride before it’s dark
and grilling Harri about her day,’ Jack said. ‘Dinner sounds
good, thanks.’
The coat rack by the door was laden with quilted jackets
and vests but he found a spot for his duffle jacket and picked
his way past tubs of their grandparent’s knick-knacks, piles
of crockery and partially sorted bed linens. Sentimentality
had hampered Clem’s best efforts at decluttering the rest of
the house in the months since they’d arrived, and the spare
room resembled an auction storeroom, especially with Clem
and Harriet’s unpacked belongings.
‘The second-hand store will take the antiques,’ Jack reminded
his sister. ‘And I can help shift them on the weekend.’
Clem shot him a pained look. ‘It’d be easier if we didn’t
know the stories behind every piece. The record player Pop
bought Nan for her fortieth. The matching armchairs she
recovered five or six times. Pop’s recliners, the drinks trolley,
the little side table you made in high school.’

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Jack laughed. ‘That wobbly side table’s the opposite of an

antique.’
‘Is it just me, or is it weird living here without Nan and
Pop?’ Clem asked, looking around the house Arthur and Shirley
Crossley had built as newlyweds.
‘Strange as,’ Jack agreed, setting the table. ‘I keep expecting
Nan to wander out of the laundry with our school shirts in
one hand and the ironing board in the other.’
‘Or Pop to amble in from the sunflower paddocks, dust in
every crease of his clothing and those faded bucket hats he
liked. I can hardly bear to toss his old work clothes in the bin.’
‘He doesn’t need much at the retirement village, and don’t
hang onto anything on my behalf. There’s enough in my storage
unit to fill the station house once it’s ready.’
‘But we like you living with us,’ Harriet said, bringing water
glasses to the table. ‘Can’t you stay forever?’
‘Not sure it’s Uncle Jack’s dream setup, but he does own
half the house, so it’s his as much as it is ours. Stay as long
as you want, Jack.’
Clem was kinda right. If someone had told him eighteen
months ago he’d be sharing a house with his sister, he would’ve
frisked their pockets for drugs. But the gift of their grandparents’
farmhouse, combined with the Penwarra policing position and
Clem’s redundancy, had felt like three ducks had waddled into
their lives and lined up in a millimetre-perfect row.
‘You’ll be sick of me after a few months,’ Jack said. ‘And
the station house is part of the job. My door’s always open
for you two. Especially if you bring desserts like this.’
He’d eaten more sweets in the last five months than the
last five years, but the pride in Harriet’s smile and boost in
Clem’s confidence as she plated up each delicacy, were worth
every calorie.

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 2

‘Sorry again for the misunderstanding, Blondie,’ George said,

tipping the brim of his flat cap towards Lauren. ‘I’ve felt wretched
all day. I really thought the fuss was in your honour. You’re
a plucky thing, though, it took mettle to soldier on in there.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world, George.’ Lauren wound
a scarf around her neck. She’d gritted her teeth and smiled
through the cake and speeches, turned her phone to silent as
the impatient texts flooded in from her mum, sister and best
friend, and resigned herself to giving George the farewell he
deserved instead of retreating to lick her wounds.
She collected her car keys, studying the Moroccan carved
camel keyring, the plastic Eiffel Tower and the porcelain
babushka doll. The wanderlust she’d had while bouncing
between radio and newspaper jobs, high on the thrill of
European adventures, provided her with the answer she needed,
just a moment before George asked, ‘Am I right in thinking
you already have a Plan B simmering away?’
‘The start of a very loose plan,’ Lauren admitted, smiling
properly for the first time since lunch. ‘I’ll chase a short-term

13

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secondment to another radio station, one that’ll offer airtime

to get the experience I need.’
‘Atta girl,’ George said, bracing her shoulders with his hands
and giving an almost fatherly squeeze. Her dad had been a
fit and healthy forty-something when they’d lost him, and
while George was years older, she’d always appreciated his
paternal warmth. ‘I knew they wouldn’t keep you down for
long,’ he said, hugging her goodbye.
The phone reception between Mount Gambier and Penwarra
was notoriously patchy, and Lauren waited until she was past
the sawmills and the small towns that had once thrived in the
peak of the forestry industry before dialling April’s number.
‘Cancel the celebration dinner,’ she said, getting in quickly
before her best friend’s hopeful question.
‘You’re kidding me? You were a dead cert.’
‘Apparently not,’ Lauren said, giving April the abridged
version of the day. April’s loyal indignation, outrage and
assurances that the radio station had made a monumental
mistake soothed Lauren’s wounded pride.
‘Did your mum lose her mind?’
‘We’ll find out in about five minutes.’
‘Need me to come by and referee? You can put Gabrielle
on speakerphone and we can play Bickford Bingo. Five bucks
says she’ll try to convince you to move back to the city again.’
Lauren parked outside her pretty pink cottage on Petticoat
Lane. ‘You’re on. Ten bucks says she’ll mention Tahnee’s pre-
tax income and remind me that I should aim higher.’
They both laughed. Gabrielle Bickford wouldn’t take the
news in her stride. Nor would Lauren’s big sister, Tahnee.
Lauren took a moment to appreciate the late afternoon light
and the way it transformed the soft weatherboards of her house
to king-protea pink. The feminine facade was a daily reminder
that strength and stability come in all shapes and sizes.

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 Wallaby Lane 15

The screeching started the moment Lauren unlocked the

heavy front door.
‘Cool bananas! You’re flamin’ mad! Give us a beer then!’
‘I’m sorry, Gaz,’ Lauren crooned. She unlatched the large
aviary and put her hand inside, but instead of climbing onto
her wrist and allowing himself to be petted, Gary— a pink
and grey galah—hopped from one perch to another, squeezed
into his nesting box and sulked.
‘I’ll get you some sunflower heads and cuttlefish on the
weekend,’ she said, topping up his seed bowl and adding an
Iced VoVo biscuit as a peace offering. She took a second biscuit
for herself, poured a gin and tonic and braced herself for the
phone call ahead.
‘We’ve had the champagne on ice for hours, darling. Were
you out celebrating?’ Gabrielle said when she answered.
Lauren sank onto the couch and kicked off the lace-up
boots that were a fraction too snug across her toes. ‘I didn’t
get the job, Mum.’
The line was silent for two sips of G&T and Lauren was
just raising the glass to her lips for a third time, when Gary
burst out of his nesting box with one of his favourite phrases.
‘Piss off, Curly! Piss off, Curly!’
Lauren startled and the mulberry-flavoured gin and tonic
slopped down her knit blouse. She uttered a few salty words
of her own as she mopped up the spill.
Gabrielle sighed. ‘I wish you’d rehome that infuriating bird.
What happens when your editor calls after hours? She must
have quite the sense of humour.’
‘He,’ Lauren corrected. ‘Not she. And if Paul needs me
after hours, he’s more of a texter, not a caller.’
‘Your sister’s phone rings all hours of the night, you know.
Meetings with Japan, powwows with the Danish clients,
updates from the Florida team. Tahnee dropped in for dinner

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 16 maya linnell

yesterday and that phone barely stopped buzzing the whole

time. But at least she gets paid accordingly.’
Strike one for Bickford Bingo. Lauren fixed herself another
gin, stronger this time, and tried not to compare her mid-level
radio job to her sister Tahnee’s executive role at a prestigious law
firm. We both work hard. Success looks different for everyone.
‘Your sister will be furious when we tell her you were
overlooked. Furious!’ Gabrielle’s ire set off a round of barking
in her Unley Park townhouse. ‘We are not happy about this,
are we, Bruno? No, no, no.’ Gabrielle’s tone momentarily
softened to the baby voice she reserved for her daschund, but
once her attention was back on Lauren, she was all business.
‘I’m sure it’s against some HR protocol. Tahnee can help me
find a legal loophole.’
Lauren managed a laugh. ‘It’s not high school, Mum. You
can’t send in letters appealing my grades.’
‘We’re gutted for you, sweetheart, really we are. If you
were in Adelaide we could recap the interview, examine their
feedback and work out where you went wrong.’
‘Not that again, Mum. I’m not planning on moping around.
I’m already working on Plan B.’ Poking sticks into my eye would
be better than an interview post-mortem with my mother.
‘That’s the spirit! I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. That
tiny country town was always just a stepping stone. Stuff the
lot of them!’
‘I’m not leaving for good, Mum. Just a short secondment to
iron out a few kinks and nail the job next time it comes up.’
While the thought of another panel interview made Lauren
shudder, it was better than waiting for luck to find her— or
worse, letting her family shoehorn her into a corporate career
she didn’t want.

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 Wallaby Lane 17

After investigating a suspected break-in that turned out to be

the homeowner’s daughter ‘borrowing’ her parents’ holiday
house, and a welfare check on an elderly resident, Jack arrived
back at the police station later that week to find the calendar
on the wall had half-a-dozen new entries.
Sammi Altschwager, the station receptionist, bounced into
the office, her ability to text and talk while walking despite
barely looking at the phone in her hand making him feel even
older than his forty-two years.
‘Just in time, boss,’ she said. ‘You’re due at a ribbon cutting
in fifteen minutes.’
He frowned at the calendar. ‘You sure I need to attend this
luncheon?’
Sammi tossed him the patrol ute keys. ‘If it were me, the
lure of cake would make it a no-brainer, but it’s not the same
for a health-nut like you, is it?’
‘I’m not a health—’
‘Ahem?’ Sammi cut him off mid-protest, with a pointed
look at the carbon-frame bicycle, helmet and cycling shoes
beside Jack’s desk.
Jack shrugged. There were worse habits than lunchbreak
workouts. Short of police emergencies, Mondays and Fridays
were for cycling, Tuesdays and Thursdays for jogging and
Wednesdays were for weights, plus the morning laps at the
town pool.
‘And don’t get me started on your boring lunch box, either.
I’d take a CWA catered luncheon any day of the week over
those pitiful leftovers in the fridge.’
Biting back a smile, Jack pocketed the keys. ‘Just saying, I’d
get more bang for the taxpayer buck with an hour on highway
patrol or dropping into the local businesses and saying g’day
than swanning around at the Wildlife Sanctuary, watching
them cut a ribbon for a bunch of new enclosures.’

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Nevertheless, Jack put his hat on, then adjusted his belt.
Unlike in Adelaide, he wasn’t carrying the full quota of weapons
and he suspected it would take some time to get used to the
lighter load. He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, wiped
down each surface of the kitchen, then applied 50+ sunscreen.
Sammi followed him to the door. ‘Try to have fun.’
Jack drove past the award-winning wineries, down a series
of back roads and eventually along a limestone track until he
reached a succession of homemade welcome signs. Judging from
the cars lining the driveway and flowing out onto the dusty
laneway, the wildlife shelter was a much-loved community
facility.
Colourful flags flanked the entrance and the low hum of
conversation, plus the unmistakable sounds of country music,
came from the far end of the property. An older lady waved
him over to the food table.
‘Good to see you’ve settled into town, Mr Crossley, though
it’s a shame they couldn’t have your accommodation ready
in time,’ she said with a ‘tsk’. ‘Fancy that, offering you a
job in January and not having the station house renovations
completed five months later. Lucky that old farmhouse is
plenty big enough.’
‘Sure is,’ Jack replied, trying to conjure her name from the
wealth of residents he’d met in the last few months. He mightn’t
know many faces yet, but Penwarra knew him, alright.
‘I’m ruddy glad they didn’t send us a fresh-faced young
whippersnapper from the city. Least you’ve had a little life
experience.’ Her sharp gaze went from the smattering of silver
at Jack’s temples to his belt. ‘You look like you could do with
a good feed though.’
Despite Jack’s protests, the woman piled his plate high
with sandwiches, quiches and savouries, adding three more
items after he’d assured her there was plenty. ‘Don’t forget the

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 Wallaby Lane 19

condiments,’ she said, gesturing to the smorgasbord of jam jars

and chunky chutneys. ‘Not a patch on your nan’s preserves
but better than any of that store-bought rot.’
‘Thank you,’ Jack said, spooning sticky chilli jam onto a
devilled egg and calculating the extra cardio he needed to do
that evening to counteract the sumptuous lunch.
The woman pointed to the chalkboard by the steaming
urn. ‘They’re running guided tours on the hour—you’ll just
catch them. Don’t forget to swing past afterwards, the sweets
will be out by then.’
And while Jack wasn’t sure he’d manage such an enormous
lunch, let alone sweets, he thanked her and went in search of
the tour group.

~
Jack was impressed with the facilities for injured and orphaned
native animals, especially the quirky possum shed, which had
been fashioned from recycled materials to resemble an old
miner’s hut.
‘Possums might look cute, but as a protected species, they
can be tricky to evict from your roof and garden,’ said wildlife
carer and today’s tour guide, Sean Dainty.
‘Not wrong there,’ said the lady next to Jack with a frus-
trated sigh. ‘When they’re not stealing fruit and veggies from
my garden, they’re munching on my rosebuds just before
blooming! Barely had a rose left by the time the brushtail
possums had their fill.’
Jack’s phone rang and he let the tour group walk ahead.
‘All good, Pop? Is Clem okay?’
‘No need to sound so worried, Jacko.’ Arthur Crossley’s
rusty laugh came down the line. ‘And your sister’s probably
relishing the peace and quiet. I was just calling to see how
you’re faring. Out and about, from the sounds of it?’

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Jack leaned against the rustic possum hut and told his
grandfather about the open day.
‘Harriet would love that. What do they have?’
‘Fruit bats, possums, a wedge-tailed eagle, wombats,
wallabies, kangaroos, potoroos, flying foxes, turtles,’ Jack
recounted the animals he’d seen. Just thinking about the feeding
and cage-cleaning schedule and the kilos of food and milk
powder the centre used every day made his head spin. ‘What
don’t they accept?’
It caught Jack off guard when somebody other than his
grandfather answered.
‘Domestic animals,’ said the flat voice.
Jack whirled around, not seeing anyone. It wasn’t until he
lifted his sunglasses and peered far into the possum enclosure
that he spotted a figure inside.
‘I’ll call you back, Pop,’ he said, then pocketed the phone
and frowned at the near-invisible eavesdropper. After two
decades in the force, Jack was normally much more alert,
automatically aware of each and every person in the room,
suspicious until he had reason not to be.
‘Why on earth are you hiding in there?’ The question came
out sharper than Jack had intended.
Stepping out of the shadows, the teenager dipped a hand into
the front of a baggy T-shirt and Jack couldn’t help automatically
reaching for his holster.
‘Hey, hands where I can see them.’
‘Shh,’ the boy growled. ‘Keep your voice down.’ He pulled a
small possum from the neckline of his shirt. It was clearly not
in favour of leaving its warm, dark, human cocoon and by the
time the boy had carefully extracted the creature and returned
it to a fabric pouch, his neck was covered in fine scratches.
This is a country kid, Jack reminded himself, not a wannabe
gang member.

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 Wallaby Lane 21

The boy locked the enclosure behind him. When he stepped

out into the light, Jack surmised he was about sixteen or seven-
teen. Like the tour guide Sean, this kid wore a khaki shirt
with the sanctuary logo on it. But unlike the adults with their
matching baseball caps, the boy wore a flat cap backwards.
A curtain of greasy hair hung over his ears. His arms were
criss-crossed with faded ink designs, waves, intricate mandalas
and little animals, all the way up to his biceps.
‘You a volunteer?’
‘Sebastian Dainty,’ the teenager said. ‘Which is why I’m
here instead of smiling for the cameras. And as I was saying
before, my parents only take natives. No cats, dogs, turkeys,
sheep, goats,’ he added with a sigh, intent on his dusty shoes.
‘Especially not goats.’
‘Can’t save them all.’
‘Not that it stops people dropping off strays on a regular
basis. Just yesterday someone left a sack of kittens by the gate
with no water or nothing.’ He gave a snort of disgust. ‘Scum.’
Jack agreed with him. Unfortunately, he’d seen kids in the
city subjected to similar levels of neglect.
‘They’re cutting the ribbon soon,’ Jack offered, looking at
his watch. ‘Shouldn’t be too long before everyone clears out
and leaves you guys in peace.’ He pointed to the penmanship
on the teen’s forearms. ‘Nice drawings.’
Sebastian folded his arms and the biro-drawings disappeared
from view before Jack could comment any further.
A woman bustled up to them, peered at Jack’s name tag
and gave a sharp nod. ‘Art and Shirley’s grandson, right?’
Jack didn’t blame the teenager for shrinking into the shade.
There was something schoolmarmish about the woman’s bossy
tone and pointed finger.
‘How can I help?’

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 22 maya linnell

‘Well for starters, you can go home via Victor Jenkins’

disgraceful property,’ she said, tapping Jack’s arm as if he
were personally responsible for the issue. ‘Car bodies, grass
up to your ears . . . You can barely drive past his boundary
without spotting a tiger snake or a copperhead. It’s a stone’s
throw from your grandfather’s old sunflower farm. Someone
needs to do something about it—’
Jack nodded, lifting his hand to interrupt but the woman
shook her head and waved her finger at him.
‘And then there’s my chickens. Someone keeps breaking into
the hen house. Three chickens I’ve had stolen this year, and
some days there’s barely an egg in the nesting boxes. That’s a
lot of empty egg cartons, Constable Crossley.’
‘Foxes, perhaps?’ he ventured.
She bristled as Sebastian let out a snicker of laughter.
‘This isn’t a joke, young man. Foxes leave feathers and mess,
and I’m yet to hear of an egg-eating fox. Mark my words,
there’s something fishy afoot, now it’s chickens and eggs, next
they’ll be stealing pumps from water tanks and pinching hot
water services from new house builds. At least mark Victor
Jenkins’ property into your official complaints register. I’m
not the only one who’s fed up.’
Jack promised to note down both matters.
Once she was gone, Sebastian stepped out of the shadows.
‘Vic used to help with some of our overflow,’ he said. ‘When
Mum and Dad had too many wallabies and roos, Vic would
raise the odd joey, sometimes the runts that needed the extra
attention. Oldies like her—’ he glared at the woman heading
for the exit, ‘— they might toss a bit of cash around, make
themselves feel better about the cause, but Vic does his bit too.’
The teen paused and Jack had the sense he wanted to say more.
‘If you see Vic, can you tell him I said hi? I haven’t visited in
ages and I could use his help with an . . . um . . . overflow issue.’

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 Wallaby Lane 23

‘Isn’t today all about new extensions and extra space for
more animals?’
‘Well, don’t go out of your way if it’s a big deal,’ Sebastian
huffed, eyes flashing.
‘It’s not a problem,’ Jack said. ‘I can pass on the message.
What do you want me to tell him? That you’ve got a joey?’
Sebastian’s eyed darted back to the possum enclosure he’d
been perched in and if it hadn’t been for Jack’s police training,
he may not have noticed.
‘Something other than a joey?’
Sebastian kicked the dirt with his boots.
Boy, he’d be easy to fleece in a game of cards. Jack waited,
curious to see if the boy would trust him with whatever it was.
‘It’s a kid goat,’ Sebastian blurted out eventually. ‘And Dad
can’t stand goats. I mean, he, like, really, really hates goats.’
His words came out in a rush, coinciding with a round of
polite applause from the audience. ‘I was gonna keep it here
for a week or two, just until it was stronger, then give it to
someone like Vic or surrender it to the pound. I’ll be grounded
all holidays if Mum and Dad find out.’
Jack chewed his lip. He didn’t owe this kid anything, and it
probably wasn’t wise to get caught in the middle of a family tiff,
but there was something about the edge to Sebastian’s voice.
‘Can’t you give it back to whoever dropped it off?’
Sebastian shook his head. ‘My mate was supposed to dong
it on the head when it was born, because it’s only got one
eye. Not a good look for a stud breeder. Mum and Dad have
been so busy getting this place ready for today, they haven’t
noticed.’ He sighed. ‘Yet.’
‘And now it’s in the possum house?’
‘Vic’s is too far to ride my bicycle with a goat in a backpack.’
Jack couldn’t help it, his lips twitched at the mental image
of a teenager cycling along the road with a goat in a backpack.

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Sebastian scowled at him. ‘Go on then, have a laugh. Hardy-

bloody-har. Or you could help me out and drop it to Vic on
your way back.’ He scratched at his ear and shot Jack another
grudging look. ‘Please?’
By the time the speeches were over and the crowd had
started to disperse, the goat was stowed in a dog carrier in
the back of the ute, along with half a bag of milk powder.
Jack opened the passenger door, trying to avoid eye contact
with the pitiful, one-eyed animal. He’d go direct to Victor’s
house, and then back along Wallaby Lane to Sunny Cross
Farm. No way he wanted to risk Clem and Harriet falling in
love with the darn thing.

~
‘Too early to light the fire?’ Lauren asked Gary, offering the
galah a sheet of newspaper, which he promptly shredded. Even
though it wasn’t particularly icy outside, she was in the mood
for carbs, comfort food and a cosy wood fire.
Clouds scudded across the sky while Lauren collected an
armful of kindling from outside, and the soft patter of rain
settled on the roof as she scrunched up the sports section
to light the fire. Soon the fire was roaring, Heinz spaghetti
was bubbling away in a pan on the top of the wood burner
and she was settled on the couch with her laptop.
Just a quick look at the job ads, she promised herself.
The broadcasting intranet was a rabbit warren of infor-
mation, but she soon found what she was looking for. And
while the bureau over the border in Warrnambool didn’t have
any backfill openings for presenters, there was a short-term
journo’s position up for grabs. Her bottom lip caught between
her teeth, Lauren tapped out a quick email.
‘Three months in South West Victoria, Gaz. Reckon we
can handle that?’

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 Wallaby Lane 25

The galah hopped along the floor towards her and used his
beak and claws to climb up to her shoulder. Lauren smoothed
his rosy chest, traced the delicate curve of his silver wing and
tickled the sweet spot beside his ear that made him coo.
She ate dinner at the dining table, determined not to refresh
her email for at least an hour, but she had barely finished the
washing up when the laptop dinged. ‘Bloody heck, bloody
heck,’ sang Gary, bopping up and down with his feathered
crest fanned out.
Lauren hurried to the laptop, then grinned at the bird. ‘Get
your whale-watching binoculars ready, Gaz, looks like we’re
daytripping to Warrnambool for a meet and greet this weekend.’

~
The sun was spreading its golden tendrils towards the horizon
when Jack pulled up outside Victor Jenkins’ property that
evening. The old lady at the wildlife sanctuary luncheon was
right about one thing: the place was a pig sty.
Many years ago, when the paddocks at Sunny Cross Farm
had bloomed with sunflowers, Jack had been able to glimpse
the beginnings of Victor’s car collection from his grandparents’
back porch. The sunflowers were long gone, but the shelter
belts of native trees had since grown, blocking their view of
what now looked like a car cemetery, not the collection of an
enthusiast.
A ‘private property’ sign hung from Victor’s gate, but even
that was tired, with rust peeling the corners and the print
faded by the sun. A tortoiseshell cat was perched on the gate
post, a tabby sunned itself on the brick path, a pair of ginger
kittens scampered out from under a decaying car body and an
enormous fluffy white cat groomed itself on the front doormat.
All but the fluffy cat fled when Jack shut the car door and
opened the gate.

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After knocking on the door and receiving a ‘you want me

to move?’ look from the snowy cat, Jack surveyed the prop-
erty. It was even worse up close.
Victor answered the door after several knocks, and while he
wasn’t much younger than Arthur, age hadn’t treated him well.
Victor squinted at the uniform, then the plastic crate Jack
held. ‘Another cat hater, huh? Join the queue,’ he snorted and
made to shut the door.
Jack shook his head, put his boot inside the door and
removed his cap.
‘I’m Jack Crossley. Shirley and Art’s grandson. And I’m
not here to collect anything.’ He lifted the carrier. The goat
wobbled on its spindly legs. ‘Sebastian hoped you’d save this
fellow from the gallows.’
Victor folded his arms over his chest. ‘So this isn’t about
the cats?’
Jack shook his head and set the carrier on the ground.
‘Or the cars?’
Jack shook his head again. Not today. ‘The goat’s got a
birth defect, so the breeders planned to destroy it. Sebastian
thought you’d take it, but it doesn’t have to be your problem.’
‘I’ll see about that,’ said Victor, his arm shaking under the
weight of the carrier.
‘Sebastian sent along milk powder too. Where shall I put it?’
‘Gate’s fine,’ Victor said brusquely and, with a click of the
door, Jack was dismissed.

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